


Just in Case

by Michaella1996



Category: Prodigal Son - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaella1996/pseuds/Michaella1996
Summary: One shot- 5 years after joining the FBI Malcolm does something he hadn’t ever planned on doing again- seeing his father
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	Just in Case

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is pretty much canon but sort of AU? Anyway I couldn’t get it out of my head so here you go

It wasn’t planned; Malcolm had never _planned_ on coming back to this place...but he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. It had been five years, _five long years_ since that fateful day he had told his father he was going to Quantico, five years since the scathing words of his father followed him out the door of Claremont. At the urging of Gil, his mother, and everyone with any sense of sanity in his life, he had intended to stay away from his father forever, planned to stay on the move, assisting in cases, catching killers- making up for the bloodshed of his father.

Which is exactly what he had been doing the past couple of years- profiling, catching and imprisoning killers, testifying in court, things like that- but everything came to a standstill the week prior. He had been working a case for weeks with little to no headway; a small town in upstate New York had a string of women turning up dead in increasingly grotesque ways. It was clear the killer was a white male, early 30s, beginning to gain confidence in himself as a killer. 

Eventually Malcolm found a lead that took his team to a barn on the outskirts of town. He went in from behind, easing open a side door, and crept inside. If he could find the man responsible, he could talk him down. He peeked into a storage room, and found a woman hung and gutted. The smell permeated the room and he stifled a gasp as his stomach clenched, she had clearly been dead for several days. 

He crept down the hall to a row of stalls and began to look in each one. As he approached the third, a pain erupted in the back of his head and he spun around. The killer- a large man named Pat- stood behind him, fists out.

“Did-did you just punch me in the back of the head?” Malcolm asked incredulously, that was a new one. The man growled and grabbed him by the throat, throwing him against the stall door and lifting him in the air. Spots danced on the edge of his vision and Malcolm kicked helplessly. The man leaned in, his rank breath nearly causing Malcolm to gag, 

“I normally just kill women, but for you I’ll make an exception.” He snarled, squeezing tighter. Malcolm gasped and became aware of a different pain, something long and heavy digging into his back. Desperate, he flung his hands behind him and pulled it out, knocking Pat over the head with it. Once he let go, Malcolm noted it was a shovel. Gasping desperately as air finally filled his lungs he doubled over as they burned. 

The man stood back up and a panic settled over him, _he was going to die. Where the hell was his team?_ Pat took a step forward and a surge of adrenaline went through his body. Malcolm lunged desperately, pushing the shovel in front of him to protect himself. It slid into Pat’s rib cage effortlessly and killed him within moments, soaking Malcolm in his blood. He pulled it out and shoved it forward again, over and over until they both fell to the floor and he felt a small twinge of satisfaction course through him. _He had saved himself and countless future victims._ Guilt followed immediately after- _everyone deserved a chance at healing, and the victims deserved true justice and peace._

Malcolm was placed under temporary medical leave to handle the trauma while the bureau worked out all of the paperwork. Without informing his mother or sister he slipped back into the city, trying to find any sense of normalcy or comfort. His apartment was cold and empty, devoid of many personal items- as a profiler, Malcolm knee how much weight sentiment held and he never wanted to be on the receiving end of a profile. He had spent the past few days reliving the moment over and over again, trying to think of a different outcome that would have still saved himself. The constant onslaught of memories haunted him and in the few hours he managed to sleep he was bombarded with the image of Pat dying over and over again. 

Which ended up bringing him to Claremont. If there was one person who could help him make sense of his emotions it was his father. Now whether he would agree to see Malcolm was something entirely else. He stood outside the cell as a guard walked in to talk to his father, who was bent over a desk. Suppressing the tremor in his hand at being back there again he listened in on the conversation.

_“There’s a Mr. Bright here to see you.”_

_“I don’t know any Bright’s”_

_“He said he was on the visitors list before”_

_“No he couldn’t have been. I don’t know someone with that name. What’s the first name?”_

_“Malcolm.”_ His father froze for a moment then spun around, eyes frantically searching the hallway for him. Malcolm wordlessly stepped into the cell. His father’s hair had begun to grey and some wrinkles adorned his face, but otherwise he looked nearly the same. As they made eye contact, a smile broke out on his father’s face and he stood up, rushing towards the red line with arms outstretched.

  
  


“Malcolm?” He whispered, eyes glistening, “My boy, is it really you?” Malcolm modded, a lump forming in his throat, he hadn’t realized how much he had missed his father’s voice. Despite the alarm bells going off in his head he stepped forward too, all he wanted was to rush into his father’s arms, to be a kid again; not someone who had killed. He realized he hadn’t even made the guard out the cuffs on like usual, he just needed to see him as quickly as possible.The guard stepped outside to give them a moment alone. As soon as the door closed, his father seemed to remember their situation and composed himself rapidly.

“It’s good to see you son, it’s been too long and given how we left things I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again.” Malcolm cleared his throat, ready to say something, but he couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. Face burning, despite his best efforts, tears began to flow down his face rapidly.

His father paled, not used to seeing him lose control. With a sob, Malcolm threw himself the last few feet over the line into his father’s arms. His dad instinctively wrapped his arms around him. The action caused Malcolm to sob harder, burying his face in his father’s shoulder. They had never been exactly a physically affectionate family, which meant both Malcolm and Ainsley were starved of it growing up. 

His dad ran a hand down his back as his sobs subsided and dissolved into soft tears. He felt a soothing hand card through his hair and he leaned into the touch.

“What’s wrong, my boy?” He whispered, maneuvering them to sit on the ground as a tremor ran through Malcolm. He hiccuped and shook his head.

“I need your help.” He croaked. His father tightened his grip and Malcolm felt his head nod.

“With what? What happened?”

His throat hoarse, Malcolm began to talk, he wasn’t sure how much it made sense- he kept talking in circles, blabbering about everything that had happened to him in the five years since he had seen him. He told him about Quatico and about changing his name- his father had tensed up at that like he was going to say something but Malcolm plowed through and moved on to his first case. At some point he realized his father’s arms were still around him and he stood up quickly, backing away from the red line and began to pace.

He talked for what felt like hours as his tears dried and hands began to steady. He walked up and down the cell like a caged animal, running his hands through his hair, eyes glinting maniacally as he moved on to the events of the past few weeks. When he got to the part about Pat, he froze, eyes focusing on a speck of dust on the ground. _What was he doing?_ Reality started to set in and he glanced up, making eye contact with his father, who was still seated on the ground, face twisted into a look of despair. 

Malcolm winced, _maybe this hadn’t been the best idea._ He glanced at the door and his father shot up to his feet.

“Oh no, you don’t get to leave without telling me the real reason you’re here Malcolm.” He said soothingly, taking a step forward. Malcolm matched him and stepped backwards. 

“I-I-I I can’t say it.”

“What happened?” As his father asked the question, Malcolm’s mind went blank. _No, no, no_. 

“I um-I-“ at his stuttering his father’s face grew concerned, and Malcolm was once again struck with the image of Pat’s lifeless body, shovel sticking out of him. His stomach turned and he was grateful he hadn’t had any food that day or he might have retched. “I did something bad.” He said. At his father’s questioning look he continued,

“Look, I’ve- I’ve made it a point to make sure every person I track down gets help. I make sure every one of them who has needed it has ended up in a facility and is getting proper care.” His father nodded and he began to pace. “But-but this case-“

“-Was different” His father finished. He nodded,

“My team was running late and he attacked me. I-I-I I killed him.” He finished in a whisper, tears entering his eyes. His father nodded, and moved to sit cross legged again.

“Well it sound perfectly reasonable, self defense is normal. You’re a Whitly, our fight or flight instincts lean heavily on fight.” He chuckled, probably hoping to ease the tension. Malcolm sat down, facing his father but still on the safe side of the red line,

“It’s not that.” His father paused and tilted his head. His eyes widened as he understood.

“You _liked it_ , didn’t you?” At the whispered words Malcolm’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t admitted it to himself but of course that’s why he was _here_ of all places. He flinched and scooted backwards.

“What?” He asked, feigning ignorance. His dad leaned forward, eyes gleaming as a smile broke across his face,

“You liked it. That’s why you came here. You wanted to be comforted, to be told that’s it’s _normal_ , that nothing is wrong with you.” Malcolm shook his head and stood up, backing away.

“You’re wrong. I didn’t like it. You’re wrong.” His father’s smile widened,

“Then why did you come here my boy?”

“This was a mistake.” He felt for the door along the wall and turned to leave.

“We’re the same Malcolm! Don’t forget it! Please come back soon, I’ll be waiting!” His father shouted behind him and began laughing, looking prouder than he’d ever seen him. A weight settled in Malcolm’s gut.

_He’s wrong. We’re not the same._

Still, once Malcolm got back he finally turned in the paperwork to get himself a firearm.

_Just in case._


End file.
